Memorial Day
by Oceanbreeze7
Summary: Steve doesn't understand why everyone is celebrating. They should be mourning. "When I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost."


The contradiction of this one singular nondescript, final Monday of the month of May was thick and disorienting.

The hallways and bedrooms were darkened and saturated with a thick layer of languor and almost radiated an intangible chill.

Steve Rogers rose in the morning at the same time he always had, stretched the same muscles he always did, and adorned his usual civilian clothing laggard and dawdling.

He scarcely exhaled a word as his shoes clipped against the marbled and stylishly decorated flooring of the Avenger tower. They made small muffled sounds as the rubber soles quietly and tediously walked towards the elevator as if it had become some arduous task instead of the same actions he repeated every day.

It just happened to be a Monday that other people recognized as well.

The first indication that the morning was not at all normal no matter how much Steve repeated it in his head, was the unusual amount of people on the streets.

They paid him no mind as nearly every single person had a single minded goal they were driving to accomplish.

He convinced himself that given a few more minutes the crowds would thin and the population so thick the sensation of suffocation would disperse and leave him in peace.

It didn't, and instead only increased in this stifling thickness and choking warmth that left his skin perspiring in ways he could only explain as sweat from his morning jog.

The people seemed to be even more rude and more brash this morning compared to all others. Street vendors were more motivated to sell their usual merchandise at newly ridiculous prices and shouted more words that only lasted a half second before joining the orchestra of shouts and horns from toxic taxi cabs.

Steve found himself suddenly claustrophobic, the pressing of people and the shuffling of people and loud incoherent voices made him want to shout and it was too much-

He decided that his morning jog would have to be delayed.

The park was filled with the piercing yells of small children and nasal voices of laughter and lewd comments.

The animals Steve normally saw and eventually found himself looking forward to had long since vacated the area. Even the one ancient grey squirrel with a half limping gait had vanished from the premise and left behind greasy wrappers and a gagging stench of burned grease.

Music Steve still hadn't gotten used to blared from new technology he didn't understand, gargling words and beats too deep for him to fully appreciate jarred his already trembling muscles and placed his skin on edge. There wasn't a single patch of soft green grass left untouched by large dogs or small yapping mutts, speckled and stained blankets that looked like they had been in storage for years, or puddles of spilled beer or other various fluids.

The nondescript stone bench he always sat on after his morning run, was occupied by two hormonal teenagers wearing clothing he didn't recognize, partaking in activities he didn't want to see in a place he almost revered as sacred to his daily ritual.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a heavier man wield a metal spatula threateningly at a thinner hoarse faced screeching woman, four children running circles around the homemade propane grill heedless to the inherent dangers of fire.

Steve stood there in the middle of the only patch of sidewalk not polluted by mediocre attempts at sidewalk chalk or lazy drawings with second hand spray paint.

He swallowed sharply and resisted a flinch or a hoarse cry of his own, one he knew would be swallowed in the high pitch squeals of barely legal teenagers and old men.

His eyes stung briefly as one grimy park family cheered on their savage looking hound as it raced towards a tree where a sad, limping grey squirrel tried its best to escape the snapping jaws and assured death.

Steve prayed briefly that he would see the squirrel tomorrow.

The cafe's along the prettily decorated strip were corrupted in ways that left Steve somehow sick inside.

The sidewalk was decorated similarly with powdery chalk in little designs Steve normally would have found endearing. Someone had drawn profane drawings and sayings in between the purple flowers and yellow chalk suns. Tabletops were decorated on the outdoor seating areas with red and white tablecloths that already had the sticky plastic coating in the noon heat. Patio umbrellas that didn't quite open all the way providing relieving shade over the heavy chain smokers and the couple who had already too many beers.

Cigarette butts and burnt out sparklers littered the gutters with still smoldering rubbish, the smell of gasoline seemed to linger although Steve couldn't find the actual source.

Everything about it left him somehow empty inside.

He felt like the used up camel on the makeshift ashtray- burned out, out of place, and filled with cancer amidst the cheering.

Steve enjoyed the pier, the fact that although time had changed and decades passed something still remained rustic and sea stained from the salt and constant lapping of water against wood.

It was quieter, the shore providing enough sound and the slightly acrid smell burned his sinuses and stung his eyes.

He twisted his nails into the old and slightly molded railings, pulling and tugging out fibers of ancient wood. People had marked their names and initials into the floorboards and railings, using penknives or sharpies to leave their lasting mark. Steve had faintly remembered a lifetime ago he and Bucky sneaking down here with a broken fruit knife to try and wriggle the blade into scratchy words under one of the boards.

It often brought him solace that through the time and cruel fate he experienced, having his feet dip into the water and let it lap at his ankle was the same from his childhood to now.

Drunkards were swaying on the railing, laughing and hurling one another off the pier with slurred excuses and even harsher truths. The shouts and screams an eventual flash of something metallic left Steve fighting an even stronger acrid taste in his mouth.

Why? Why were people fighting- why were they abusing what today of all days-

Steve exhaled through his nose slowly and stiffly got up and abandoned the last place he could go to for peace of mind.

It was just another Monday.

The fireworks exploded loudly in the air with a teeth jarring _Boom_! That echoed painfully through his chest to the thumping that pulsed there. Sudden splashes of red, green, and cascading golds rattled downwards with a shower of sprinkled sparks and fire that were too nostalgic to see, and too terrifying to hear.

Behind his eyelids he could see the sudden flashes of illuminated movement and contorted faces twisted in pain or in drunken stupor with meaty fists pointed to the sky in delight.

The looming smoke twisted between the skyscrapers like lolling tongues between the trees and abandoned houses that had long since been abandoned by the poor or the occupants of poppy covered graves.

Small children raced around holding paper covered sleeves with gunpowder and metals that burned and gagged him and left the looming frantic thought of 'Get down!'

They didn't detonate and the children laughed as the little fireworks screamed harsh sounds that cut the air and overlapped the sound of his retching sobs as he hid his face in the dark.

He didn't understand why today was a cause of excitement, or why fate had decided that today of all days be a cruel mockery. It felt that the day was an opportunity for people to laugh and thrust forward the memories of screaming and fire and _'Hold on, oh God no please stay with me- Stay with me!'_

Steve wished he could be part of the oblivious happy population and not tormented with the quiet lullaby his friend once sang a young girl who lost her legs to sleep with.

The tower was quiet yet still vibrated and popped mutely with the sound of rockets or the man on fourth avenue who was trigger happy with his pistol.

The lights were all off, which was somehow nice yet overwhelming from the external stimuli he had been thrown in.

The marble floors were cold and made soft padding noises with his rubber soled shoes as he walked towards the couches.

 _'Hey Cap. Movie day in the TV Room. -Clint'_

Steve glanced at the small post it note on the coffee table where it sat small and innocent.

He considered it, looking at the bright pink paper. A sudden loud crackle of fireworks made him jump and brought his attention to his chest once again.

Today was a normal everyday day. It was just another Monday.

(It wasn't.)

Today wasn't the day to be celebrating.

(He didn't understand why nobody was mourning.)

 _"When I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost._ "


End file.
